My Muse, My Mistress: Under Her Spell

She glides across the room in a crimson dress, my breath catches in my throat, her very presence creates an unfurling of desire. I cannot resist her siren call, just a glance brings me to my knees begging for her inspiration.  I want to fall into the depths of her soul, my longing for release overwhelming.

Our eyes meet as her dark beauty overtakes my vision, weakening my resolve. She leans close to whisper a promise of feverish prose we will create together. 

She slides a finger down my arm, bringing goose bumps to my skin and a flutter to my heart. Her bewitching gaze leaves no room for defiance. I pursue her as she exits the room, reeling with infatuation.  

She welcomes me into her embrace, sparks of passion heat up the pages as we create the next verse. Her presence enthralls me, her ravishing beauty leading me to extravagant heights and extended sonnets.  


With a sharp intake of breath, I am under her spell. My Muse releases my virtuosity, my unbridled prose, leaving my creativity lying on the page, spent.

My Muse, My Mistress - Her Return

My journal lies forgotten beside the bed, my scripts tossed aside the edges curling from age. I have forgotten the stroke of her hand, the brush of her lips as she whispered sweet prose for my pencil to create. Our passionate tryst just a memory, a forgotten photograph of happier times.

Though I try to recreate the rapture she invoked, my prose is lacking enchantment and intrigue. My Muse brought the pages to life with her dangerous ways, her wanton presence. Without her, I am a shadow of the writer I used to be, longing for the bountiful scripts she inspired.

My days have blended into months, her scent no longer lingers on the breeze from the open window. The yearning has subsided, her memory has faded into the background of my mind. I no longer reach out to stroke her silken hair, my heart no longer skips a beat at the thought of her dulcet tones. 

The breeze stirs, the pages of my journal shudder in anticipation. The curtains float away from the window, the summer breeze carries a glimpse of her perfume. My heart beats faster, I can almost feel her breath against my skin. 
Ah! Is it real? Has she returned?

I feel the brush of her lips against my ear, whispering promises of forgotten ecstasy. I turn from my desk; she is standing next to me her presence captivating in it's dominance. 

In my haste I stumble, falling into her arms with reckless abandon; A scorned lover forgiven. She embraces me as if she was only gone a moment,  leaving me sobbing with relief. She beckons me toward the locus of my enslavement with a bewitching look in her eyes. 

Again My Mistress captivates my heart and soul with a frenzy of unbridled prose.


 

You Were the One

You were the one to show me that my scars and self inflicted wounds are a beautiful diary of my life's journey. I honor myself by coloring in the lines with needles of ink on my skin.

You were the one who helped me find my happiness, hidden in the bushes beside a park bench. I had left it there years ago while searching for a lost book.

You were the one who reminded me that I created the shackles keeping me confined to the dark places of my soul. When I broke free, you applauded enthusiastically at my bravery.

You were the one who created an awareness of my beauty and grace. I had tossed them aside during my search for the proper outfit to wear on a first date.

You were the one who lead me to release my loss and sorrow and embrace a new hope filled with visions of rainbows drawn in crayon.

You were the one who showed me that solitude is more powerful than capturing a dragonfly in flight. In the silence I found my voice hidden in the space between words.

You were the one I followed into an uncertain future, the map drawn in the blood of lost innocence. I found acceptance by not holding anything back, and speaking my truth with love and pride.

You were the one that made me realize I could carve out my sorrow and fill the hole with self-love. I thought I needed your trust and security, I realized I had to give this to myself first.

You were the one that fought so hard to keep your distance, until I let go of your hand and embraced my fear. Now I walk alone into a fairy tale sunset designed in Hollywood.

You were the one. Now I realize my fears were shadows created by the dark side of the moon where eternity has claws and sharp teeth.

I don't need you anymore, I am the one.

Filthy Mouth

You tried to seduce me with your filthy mouth, spewing vulgarities as if the poetry of love was dipped in shit. 

I remained mute, it was unclear whether you meant to entice, entertain, seduce or offend. What made you think I would find that appealing? Did you think I am unworthy of your respect? Did I? You continued your barrage of derogatory suggestions despite my silence, never stopping to ask if I was offended. Your Mother would have been proud, such an expressive young man. Exploring your lewdness in an open forum.

I found myself hiding in apathy, not realizing I was paralyzed by a mixture of shock and curiosity. Numb to your suggestions, yet strangely caught in the web of your imagination. 
My lack of reaction/interaction must have been the key, you lost interest and faded into the distance as the days past.

I am not the "filthy dirty whore" you are seeking, I value myself more.  I reject you with my silence, no words to surrender to your filthy mouth. 

My Muse, My Mistress - Desolation

She left in the darkness of night without a whisper or touch of her hand. The scent of her raven hair, the soft caress of her lips, her exquisite red dress the only things I remember.

The bed empty of her warmth, the sheets carelessly thrown aside the only sign of our passionate tryst. Withered rose petals littered the floor, a fading memory of happier times when we made sweet prose together. The petals turning brown along the edges, barren and parched like the void in my soul.


Her siren song of promise fading into the last sorrowful notes of a concerto in E minor as I reach out to caress her face only to find a hint of her perfume lingering on the pillow beside me. 


She warned me a time would come when she would slip away, leaving me barren of creativity, empty of inspiration. Her promise to return someday echoing in my head like a forlorn wind wailing at the loss of life. 

My journal lay forgotten, a landscape desolate and abandoned by her quickly fading memory. With a partially finished script in hand, I rise from our haven of fertile declarations to return to my desk. I search the discarded pages of desire in hopes of finding the joy hidden among the lines of text; the tattered bits of a pencil in my hand.